77

Sierra's POV

The months after Margaret died were strange. Not sad exactly. More like... quiet. Like a door that had opened and closed again, leaving us different on the other side.

Louis read all the letters. Every single one. He took his time, like he was saving them. Some made him laugh. Some made him cry. Some he read to me at night, his voice soft in the dark.

*Dear Louis,*

*Today I saw a little boy at the park who looked just like you. He was maybe three, with dark hair and serious eyes. He was building a sandcastle all by himself, so focused. I sat on a bench and watched him for an hour. I pretended he was you. I pretended I was just a normal mom, watching her son play. It was the best hour I've had in years.*

*Love always,*

*Mom*

"She watched other kids," Louis said after reading that one. "For years. Just to feel close to me."

"She loved you so much."

"I know. I just wish..."

He didn't finish. He didn't have to. We both wished for more time.

Katie handled it better than I expected. She talked about Grandma M a lot. Little things. The way she laughed. The cookie recipe she taught her. The way she said "precious" about everything Katie did.

"She called me precious," Katie said one night at dinner. "No one calls me precious."

"You're precious to us," I said.

"Mom, that's so cheesy."

"Cheesy is my specialty."

Louis laughed. He laughed more now. The grief was there, but it wasn't heavy anymore. It was just part of him. Part of us.

In the spring, we went back to Oakwood. Margaret's house needed to be cleared out. We'd been putting it off. Too hard. Too final.

But it had to be done.

The little blue house looked sad when we pulled up. The garden was overgrown. Mail piled up by the door. It felt wrong, seeing it empty.

Katie ran ahead and tried the door. "It's locked!"

"I have the key," Louis said. He held it up. Margaret gave it to him before she died. "For when you're ready," she'd said.

He unlocked the door. We stepped inside.

It smelled like her. Lavender and old books. Dust motes floated in the sunlight. Everything was exactly as she left it.

Katie went straight to the bedroom. She'd claimed Margaret's jewelry box, the one with the little ballerina that spun when you opened it. She wound it up and watched the ballerina dance.

Louis stood in the living room, just looking. At her chair. Her blankets. The photos on the wall.

I started in the kitchen. It felt wrong, touching her things. Like I was invading. But someone had to do it.

We worked all morning. Sorting. Packing. Donate piles. Keep piles. Trash piles.

In the back of a closet, I found another box. Not the shoebox of letters. A bigger one. Taped shut.

"Louis," I called. "Come look at this."

He came over. We opened it together.

Inside were baby things. A tiny onesie. A little hat. A blanket with faded blue stripes. And more photos. Louis as a baby. The same baby from the first photo, but more of them. Him sleeping. Him in a crib. Him being held by Margaret, both of them looking at the camera.

"She kept everything," Louis whispered. "All of it."

"She couldn't let go."

He picked up the onesie. It was so small it fit in one hand.

"This is what I wore," he said. "When I was born."

"Probably."

He held it for a long time. Then carefully folded it and put it in the keep pile.

At the bottom of the box was an envelope. Bigger than the others. Sealed. On the front, in Margaret's handwriting: *For Louis. To be opened after I'm gone.*

Louis stared at it. His hands shook a little.

"Should I open it now?"

"Whenever you're ready."

He sat down in Margaret's chair. Ripped the envelope open.

Inside was a letter. Long. Several pages. And a key. A small, old key on a ribbon.

He read out loud. His voice cracked sometimes, but he kept going.

*My dearest Louis,*

*If you're reading this, I'm gone. I hope you don't hate me for leaving you this way. I hope the time we had was enough. It wasn't enough for me. It never would have been enough. But I hope it was something.*

*There's so much I never told you. About your father. About why I really gave you up. I told you I was young and alone, and that's true. But there's more.*

*Your father's family. They were rich, Louis. Really rich. Old money. The kind that looks down on girls like me. When your father died, they blamed me. Said I trapped him. Said I was after their money.*

*They offered me money to go away. To give you up and never contact you again. A lot of money. Enough to live on for years.*

*I didn't take it.*

*I gave you up because I couldn't raise you alone. That part was true. But I also gave you up because I knew they'd come after you. They'd fight for custody. They'd drag us through court. They'd make my life a living hell and yours too.*

*I thought if I gave you to an agency, a closed adoption, they'd never find you. You'd be safe. You'd have a normal life with normal parents who could give you everything I couldn't.*

*I never told you this because I didn't want you to hate them. They're your family too. Blood family. And blood matters, even when it shouldn't.*

*Their name is Croft. Edward and Margaret Croft. Your grandparents. They're still alive, as far as I know. They live in a big house in the city. The key in this envelope is to a safe deposit box at the bank on Main Street in Oakwood. Inside is everything I have. Papers. Photos. And a letter from your father, written to you before he died. He made me promise to give it to you someday.*

*I kept my promise, my boy. After all these years, I kept it.*

*I love you more than you'll ever know. More than the moon and stars. More than my own life.*

*Be happy. Be loved. That's all I ever wanted for you.*

*Your mother,*

*Margaret*

*P.S. Tell Katie I love her too. And tell Sierra she's the best thing that ever happened to you. I could see it from the moment I met her. She's the reason you're whole.*

Louis finished reading. The paper shook in his hands.

I didn't know what to say. Grandparents. Rich grandparents. A whole other family he never knew about.

"Croft," he said slowly. "Edward and Margaret Croft."

"Same name as her. Margaret."

"I know."

He looked at the key. The little ribbon.

"She kept this all these years. The letter from my father."

"She kept everything."

He stood up. Walked to the window. Stared out at the overgrown garden.

"I have grandparents," he said. "They're alive. They're in the city. They've been there this whole time."

"Do you want to meet them?"

"I don't know." He turned around. His face was confused. Lost. "They blamed her. They tried to take me away. They offered her money to disappear."

"That was forty years ago. People change."

"Maybe. Or maybe they're still the same."

I went to him. Put my hands on his chest, over his heart.

"You don't have to decide now. The safe deposit box isn't going anywhere. We can take our time."

He nodded. Pulled me close.

"What would I do without you?"

"Probably wear mismatched socks and forget to eat vegetables."

He laughed. A small laugh, but real. "You're right. I'd be a mess."

"You're my mess."

We finished clearing the house. It took three days. We kept a lot. The photos. The letters. The baby things. The chair she sat in. Katie claimed the ballerina jewelry box.

On the last day, we went to the bank on Main Street. Small town bank with old tellers and squeaky floors. Louis showed them the key. They took us to a small room with safe deposit boxes.

The box was small. Inside was a stack of papers. Birth certificates. Old photos. And a letter, yellow with age, in a man's handwriting.

Louis opened it right there. Read it silently. His face went through a hundred emotions in two minutes.

When he finished, he handed it to me.

*To my son,*

*I'm writing this because I'm scared. Scared I won't make it. Scared I'll never get to hold you, to watch you grow up, to tell you who I am.*

*My name is William Croft. I'm nineteen years old. And I love your mother more than anything in this world.*

*We met at a fair. Sounds stupid, right? But it's true. She was working at a cotton candy stand. I was there with friends. I saw her and that was it. Done. Finished. She was everything.*

*My family doesn't approve. They think she's beneath me. They don't understand that love doesn't care about money or names or where you come from. Love just is.*

*We're going to run away. Get married. Start our own life. They can't stop us.*

*But if something happens to me... if I don't make it... I need you to know. I loved her. I loved you before you were even born. I would have been a good father. I would have taught you to fish and to fight and to love with your whole heart.*

*Be good to your mother. She's the strongest person I know. And be happy. That's all I want. For you to be happy.*

*Your father,*

*William*

*P.S. If my parents ever come looking, tell them I forgive them. But I don't forget.*

I was crying by the end. Big, messy tears. Louis pulled me into a hug.

"He loved her," I said into his chest. "He really loved her."

"Yeah." His voice was thick. "He did."

We stood in that little bank room, holding each other, holding a dead man's letter. Forty years late. But not too late.

That night, back home, we talked about everything. The Crofts. The grandparents. Whether to find them.

Katie had strong opinions. "They were mean to Grandma M? Then I don't like them."

"It's complicated, baby."

"Complicated means they were mean."

"Sometimes complicated means people make mistakes and then regret them."

"Do they regret it?"

"I don't know. That's what we'd have to find out."

She thought about that for a minute. Then she said, "Can we find out together?"

Louis looked at me. I nodded.

"Together," he said.

The next day, Louis started digging. Private investigators. Old records. It didn't take long to find them.

Edward and Margaret Croft. Still alive. Still in the city. In a huge house in the old part of town, the part with mansions and gates and gardens you couldn't see into.

They were in their eighties now. Retired. No other children. No other family.

"They're alone," Louis said, reading the report. "Just the two of them in that big house."

"Do they know about you? About Margaret?"

"I don't know. The report doesn't say."

He looked at me. The question in his eyes.

"Do we contact them?"

"Do you want to?"

"I don't know what I want." He rubbed his face. "Part of me wants to walk up to their door and scream at them for what they did to her. Part of me wants to never think about them again. And part of me... part of me is curious. They're my blood. The only blood left from that side."

"Then we start slow. A letter. Just to see if they respond."

"A letter?"

"Old school. No confrontation. Just... here I am. Here's who I am. Do you want to know me?"

He thought about it. Nodded slowly.

"Okay. A letter."

We wrote it together. Simple. Direct.

*Dear Mr. and Mrs. Croft,*

*My name is Louis Crowe. I believe I am your grandson. My mother was Margaret Dale. My father was William Croft, your son.*

*I recently learned about you from letters my mother left me. She passed away a few months ago. I never knew her until the end of her life, but I'm grateful for the time we had.*

*I don't know if you knew about me. I don't know if you care. But I thought you should know I exist. I have a wife, Sierra, and a daughter, Katie. We live in the city. We're happy.*

*If you want to respond, you can reach me at the address below. If not, I understand.*

*Sincerely,*

*Louis Crowe*

We mailed it on a Tuesday. Regular mail. No return receipt. No tracking.

Then we waited.

A week passed. Nothing.

Two weeks. Nothing.

Katie stopped asking if they wrote back. Louis stopped checking the mail with that hopeful look.

"Maybe they don't care," he said one night. "Maybe they never did."

"Maybe they're scared too."

"Scared of what?"

"Scared of you. Scared of what you might want. Scared of facing what they did."

He shrugged. But I could see it hurt. The rejection. Even from people he never knew.

Then, on a random Thursday, an envelope arrived. Thick. Cream-colored. Old-fashioned handwriting on the front.

Louis stared at it for a full minute before opening it.

Inside was a letter. Handwritten. Shaky. Old.

*Dear Louis,*

*We have read your letter a hundred times. We have cried over it a hundred times. We have argued about what to say a hundred times.*

*I don't expect your forgiveness. I don't deserve it. But I need you to know the truth.*

*We were wrong. So terribly wrong. We let pride and money and fear blind us. We drove your father away. We drove your mother away. And we lost everything because of it.*

*When William died, we were devastated. But instead of reaching out to Margaret, instead of trying to be family, we doubled down. We blamed her. We made her life hell. We tried to take you away.*

*She was right to hide you from us. She was right to keep you safe. We were toxic. We were poison.*

*We've had forty years to think about it. Forty years of emptiness. Forty years of regret.*

*We don't want anything from you. Not money. Not visits. Not love. We just want you to know that we know. We know we were wrong. We know we lost the only son we had because of our own stupidity. And we know we don't deserve a second chance.*

*But if you ever want to meet... just once... we would be honored. We would be grateful. We would spend whatever time we have left trying to make up for the time we lost.*

*Your grandmother,*

*Margaret Croft*

*P.S. I share your mother's name. I never knew that until now. She was named after me. Your father named her after me, even after everything. I don't know why. But it breaks my heart every time I think about it.*

Louis put the letter down. His hands were shaking.

"She named me after him," he said. "Louis. William's middle name was Louis."

"I know."

He picked the letter up again. Read it one more time.

"They want to meet."

"Do you?"

"I don't know." He looked at me. "What if they're horrible? What if they're just old and lonely and using me to feel better?"

"Then we leave. We walk out. We never see them again."

"And if they're not horrible?"

"Then we have grandparents for Katie. More family. More people to love."

He was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded.

"Okay. Let's meet them. Just once."

We wrote back. Set a date. A neutral place. A café downtown. Nothing fancy. No pressure.

The day came. Grey and rainy. Perfect weather for a nervous meeting.

Louis wore a nice shirt. I wore a dress. Katie wore her favorite purple sweater, the one with the sparkly stars.

"You look pretty, Grandma M's age," she told herself in the mirror.

We got to the café early. Sat at a table by the window. Watched the door.

At exactly 11am, an old couple walked in. He was tall, even stooped with age. She was small, with white hair and careful eyes. They looked around nervously.

Louis stood up. They saw him.

The old woman gasped. Put her hand to her mouth.

"You look just like him," she whispered. "Just like William."

And then she started to cry.

The old man held onto her arm. His eyes were wet too.

"We don't expect anything," he said quickly. "We just... we wanted to see you. Just once."

Louis looked at them. At these two old people who had caused so much pain. Who had driven his parents apart. Who had spent forty years alone.

Then he did something I didn't expect.

He walked over and hugged them. Both of them at once. A big, awkward hug with the old lady crying and the old man patting his back.

"I don't forgive you," Louis said quietly. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you're my grandparents. And I think we should at least have coffee."

They sat down. We ordered coffee and cake. Katie told them about school and horses and her friend Chloe. They listened like every word was gold.

It was awkward at first. Stilted. But then something shifted. The old lady—Margaret—started telling stories about William as a boy. About how he loved to climb trees. About how he once brought home a stray dog and hid it in his room for a week.

Louis laughed. A real laugh.

"He sounds like Katie," he said. "She'd hide a whole zoo if we let her."

"I would not," Katie protested. "Maybe just a pony."

The old man—Edward—was quieter. He watched Louis with hungry eyes, like he was memorizing his face.

"I have something," he said finally. "For you. For your family."

He pulled out a photo album. Old. Worn. He opened it.

Inside were pictures of William. Baby pictures. Toddler pictures. School pictures. Growing up, year by year.

"We kept them all," Edward said. "We couldn't let go."

Louis turned the pages slowly. Seeing his father for the first time. The man who wrote him a letter forty years ago.

"He looked like you," I said softly.

"Yeah," Louis whispered. "He does."

We stayed for three hours. Talked about everything. Nothing. The rain stopped. The sun came out.

When it was time to go, Margaret hugged us all. Edward shook Louis's hand, then pulled him into a hug too.

"Can we see you again?" Margaret asked. "Just sometimes? If you want?"

Louis looked at me. I nodded.

"Sure," he said. "Sometimes."

On the way home, Katie was quiet in the back seat. Then she said, "I like them. They're old and sad, but nice."

"They are nice," I agreed.

"Can we see them again?"

"Maybe. We'll see."

Louis reached over and took my hand. Squeezed it.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For pushing me. For being here. For everything."

"Always."

We drove home. The city sparkled in the afternoon sun. New family. Old wounds. A future we never expected.

Life is weird. You think you know your story. Then someone sends a photo. A letter. A key. And suddenly the story changes.

But that's okay. Stories are supposed to change. That's what makes them worth telling.

And our story? It was far from over.